Death Met with Applause
by bwahminionra7
Summary: The rug has been yanked out from under her feet, and the Outsider can't help but wonder if Her Majesty's boots will be dirtied upon landing in this new, off-kilter world. M for violence and mature themes.
1. Chapter 1 - Introduction

**Chapter one: introduction**

 **POV: Emily (first person)**

 **Hello, everyone! I've recently renewed my interest in the Dishonored franchise, so I'm writing a story for it. Assuming I continue this, there will likely be Emsider in the future-** **unless you don't want it-along with potentially disturbing themes (violence and the like).**

* * *

I never understood the reasoning behind celebrating the assassination of an Empress, but it never stopped the entirety of the Isles paying their respects to my mother over a glass of wine… if they are rich enough for that sort of thing. The public take it upon themselves to make me painfully aware of the gaping distance between the highs and lows of society nearly every day… at least they express their strong opinions calmly, I suppose. People in with the likes of the Abbey of the Everyman do not take protesting so lightly; on more than a few occasions the castle has had to go on lockdown because the overseers demanded an audience with me without first booking an appointment. Just because they speak for the biggest—and one of few accepted—religions, it does not simply mean they can speak to the Empress at any given time. Father always made that very clear to them with a stern warning and glare, even his words inked on paper could be mistaken for having emotion. He is terribly ferocious to the public in that sense. In fact, aside from a few others, I must be one of the only people to think of him as a normal human being, and not some scary machine to debunk those who stand in my way.

There are lots of people who try to stand in my way.

They are yet to succeed in their twisted endeavours.

Ever since I was born, Corvo has looked after me indefinitely; there were no reasonable boundaries he was not willing to cross in order to ensure me going to bed safe and sound every night. And… after my mother's passing, the love he had for me was only proven even further, when he rescued me from the Golden Cat and dirty schemers that wanted to use me as a pawn for their game of power.

He cut their conspiracy to pieces flawlessly. To this day I still wonder how he did it because, above a huge amount of determination and will, he would need unmatchable skills in so many areas. Combat, stealth and persuasion, to name a few. He didn't even kill anyone—how is it possible?! Whenever I ask him, he only replies with something along the lines of "what I sacrificed to save you was not my choice... but you are safe and that is all that counts."

No matter. Now is not the time to doze off into my own thoughts and dubious assumptions. Right now, in my throne room, I'm receiving gifts from the Duke of Serkonos. I need to look respectful and kind, even if I'm not exactly in the mood.

One of _many_ jobs I have to complete on a daily basis as an Empress.

Corvo must notice my mind wandering to another plane of existence, because I feel his warm hand land on my shoulder, a comforting signal alerting me of his continued existence beside me in the real world. Nothing has ever stopped him from doing these sorts of things in the company of others, even though our relationship as father and daughter is supposed to be a closely guarded secret. Why should he stop? Friendly affection should not be limited to family members and lovers; close associates and co-workers should be able to do the exact same things—provided both people are okay with it, of course. Being touched by someone without my permission is a huge pet peeve that constantly lingers in the annoyed part of my mind, although I have slowly gotten used to the hands on my shoulders and lips on my fingers—the unnecessary gracious greeting used in formal situations just about everywhere. I barely even internally scream, nowadays.

My gaze moves upward, only to widen in amazement. Before me, walking down the long roll of blue carpet, are soldiers that are definitely _not_ human.

"Mechanical soldiers? Amazing…" I murmur aloud, examining the graceful creations heading towards me. They are of a shiny, golden colour with blades sharp enough to slice a person to pieces with only one swing. The 'heads' remind me of a plague doctor's mask, a long beak pointing outward and downward in a clean slope. The eyes are hollow holes. A lot of time, effort and coin must have been put into these.

An extremely dangerous invention they are… how troublesome would they be as an opponent? What if this technology were to fall into the hands of our enemies? Not that it is a likely occurrence. Security around these machines and their blueprints, I imagine, would be very strict.

Still, one of the first things Corvo ever taught me is that a little bit of paranoia can be good, even in seemingly harmless situations.

"What is this, Ramsey? I never authorised those _things._ "

Speak of a demon and it will appear.

My father growls, stepping to position himself in front of me. His lips are turned downward sharply, wrinkling lines slightly impaired by his beard. Over the past years, time has slowly begun to creep up on his appearance, bringing with it grey hair and slightly sunken eyes… not that they are easily noticeable. The dark circles underneath his eyes make noticing things age-related on his skin at first glance nearly impossible. You would have to have a decent look at him to notice much, and _nobody_ looks at my father for a prolonged time. Except me, of course. Whether it's out of fear or respect is highly debatable and will vary from person to person, but either way, no one just 'looks' at my Royal Protector for a significant period of time, and we are both fine with that.

"Your Imperial Majesty and Royal Protector, Corvo Attano, a native of our homeland. Serkonos offers condolences on this sorrowful day, and gifts to remind you of our nation—the rising star on the southern horizon…" the Duke bows, showing us his head of brown hair, no doubt lathered in oils found nowhere but the exotic land he calls home.

"We thank you, your grace," I say in a calm voice, portraying an emotion quite different to father's. He appears on edge, weary of the soldiers and how they tower over everyone in the room. I cannot exactly blame him as he is my protector and his job _is_ to keep me safe. I would act no different, were I in his position.

Tilting my head to the side ever so slightly, lights gleam in the corner of my eye, making rainbows when I squint and rays of illumination when I look at them more directly. The castle looks this grand just about everywhere; the only place you would find otherwise is in a room where no nobles are going to visit, like the cellars down below. I have talked to the servants about this before, and they seem content with the way things are. The dull walls and lack of carpet does not deter their usually happy attitude towards serving me. That is one of my finer traits in ruling, I believe. I try to care for everyone equally, and if they have a problem, I will do everything I can to help them without causing any major disturbances to other parties. That can be troubling at times, but my people are my priority, I suppose.

I just hope mother is proud of me. Am I even the ruler she wanted me to be? Corvo seems to think so, but I cannot help but doubt my own judgement at times.

I recall so many conversations about the subject with him, from mere sentences to long talks that lasted several minutes—sometimes a few hours.

* * *

(Flashback)

"It's just…" I put my head into my hands, feeling the underside of my signet ring on my forehead. I let it cool my temper, but a little ring can only bring so much relief to a raging fire, and in the right circumstances, can even fuel its anger further. My back aches in this slightly hunched position—slouching in a tight corset and dress is harder than any training father puts me through. It practically suffocates me, making every breath I draw a task that takes all my effort. It is for this reason, among a few others, that I hate wearing dresses with an undeniable passion. Every time an invitation says "formal wear" I cringe into my skin, my bones shrinking under the newfound sense of dread, like a plant wilting from the harsh light of the sun.

Corvo does not seem very elated to be in his outfit, either, but it is not because of a lack of comfort. It is because it will be harder to protect me should anything happen. He might deny it, but I know it troubles him.

"…I really _do_ hate dresses. They just feel… unsafe," I decide to make my reason, out of all the possibilities, sympathetic to his own worries in hopes of sanding the edge off a little further. He sighs, nodding gently in response. The need to communicate verbally was not too high in most cases—ever since mother's death, body language has kind of developed into a full-fledged way of speaking between us. I need not any words to know he does not want to go to the ball, but I also know that _he_ knows this cannot be passed up, lest we drive a gap between our national relations with other places. At least it is being hosted here, in Dunwall. We can ensure the security to a higher degree if the area of assessment is familiar.

"You wearing the boots?" he looks down to where my feet would be, were they not covered by a dark purple and black material with stitching embroidered in such a way that there appears to be silver flowers. The dress had been made by only the finest—and with some very precise specifications outside the general design and colour pallet. It purposely flares outward a lot, a somewhat strategic move to make sure that, in a situation where I need to run, I will be able to do so without tripping so easily. It also keeps my shoes and legs covered.

"Yes, and the knife holster. Although I still need-"

"Here," his hand raises upward to reveal a freshly sharpened dagger. On the hilt are unreadable initials pressed into the leather, washed away from all the years of a sweaty grip handling its surface in the hopes of protection, or, in my case, a good spar. This was one of my more commonly used weapons in training, and I'd be lying if I said I was not a little attached to it. Although it would be pretty useless in a real battle, it is good as a last resort and emergency weapon.

I take it into my grasp and turn my body away from father momentarily, lifting my frilly dress upwards to reveal the black leather strap embracing my left thigh. I slip the knife into its holster—a piece of equipment that has proved to be rather useful to me over the years, albeit not frequently needed. I do not let the material of my dress back down, instead I find myself staring at a small scar just above my knee. I got it during one of my attempts to escape the Golden Cat.

Back then, I was so convinced that I would be able to return home freely and find mother unharmed. A small part of me wouldn't give up the idea of her being alive… that some sort of elixir was able to cure what had ailed her. Mummy could not die so easily, could she? The lady who cared for not only me, but the whole Empire, would not be stilled by a blade to the heart, right?

Something pricks the back of my eyes… it _burns._

"I'm not what she wanted, am I?" my voice betrays my Empress face; it cracks towards the end, turning itself into a sort of desperate plea for any sort of confirmation or argument. Words are much better than thoughts, especially when they are negative and plaguing your senses like a poison. A dreadfully _painful_ poison.

"What?" Corvo smiles, or is he frowning? Are the people applauding or laughing? Am I ruling… or failing?

"Mother. Im not the ruler she wanted me to be, am I?"

"What makes you say that?"

"I don't know…" I sigh, finally releasing my clothing from its imprisoned state in my grasp, allowing my body to turn back and face the man before me, whose elbows rest on his knees, hands twirling with a piece of cloth in front of him. He always was one to get a bit fidgety when worried, which is something clearly described as 'bad' in the seven strictures. Idle hands, no, _restless_ hands, quickly become workmates of the Outsider.

I've never been big on the strictures, personally. Neither has father… in fact, he has often steered me away from truly believing them at some points—at least in the way the Abbey of the Everyman is trying to portray them. Yes, a lying tongue is bad, but no, it does not speak for the Outsider, and it will not burn a city down in most cases.

I wonder: what would happen if the Overseers found out about my intentional steering from their beliefs? It would be quite a show, for sure.

"You're doing well, and you're young. Emily…" he leans over, putting a hand onto my bare shoulder. Another bad quality (in my eyes) about my dress is the fact that it is sleeveless, which all but squishes my breasts uncomfortably to ensure it does not fall down. Alas, I would rather a bit of discomfort and more mobility for my arms than less mobility and a little more comfort. A dagger in your stomach is not peaceful, at the end of the day… if you even live that long. "You are exactly what your mother and I love—and more. Don't let insecurities tell you otherwise, alright?" I loved his voice in times like this. It still managed to keep its gruff exterior and slightly gravely undertone, but at the same time, it was soothing and calmed, a picture of support. He would forever be at my side, it may be the only positive routine thing around here… and I am forever grateful for it.

"Thank you…" I'm little over a hushed whisper, head tilted downwards to avoid the dim yet blinding lights and piercing stare he holds. Sometimes, no matter how hard I try, my confidence gets knocked down, and a little comfort is needed.

"No need to thank me. Now," Corvo stands up and lightly adjusts the lapels of his jacket before smiling gently, "are you ready?"

The 'Empress face' I've been trained to use throughout my time in leadership once again acts as my mask for any unwanted emotions. I stand, ignoring the tight pull of my dress, and exhale sharply. "Let's go. The sooner we get this over with, the better."

Together we walk, down past several corridors that are so confusing that even the Outsider himself would become lost in them without a map giving him clear directions and titbits of information. It's taken me all my life to remember and learn the locations of each room, to use the different wallpaper and bookcases like a signal as to where I am currently located. The castle is like a maze, designed so long ago by master architects to serve whom would be their ruler.

In this generation, day and age, the ruler is I, Emily Kaldwin, first of her name and daughter of former Empress Jessamine Kaldwin.

We're soon confronted by wooden doors with shiny handles awaiting us to turn them, thus entering the room no doubt sizzling with socialisation and nobles—rich families, Dukes, all that sort. People with upturned noses, showy clothing and bowing servants.

A lot of them—the servants—have scars, hidden beneath the common clothing they are forced to wear.

"Empresses first."

(End of flashback)

* * *

"Save your thanks, for now I present to you the greatest gift of all: family. I present the lost sister of Jessamine Kaldwin… your rightful empress, Delilah Kaldwin!" the duke announces with his back turned towards us, hands gesturing to a tall, slim figure with neatly styled hair making her way towards my throne. Her outfit is a little unusual, but that could be because she is not from Dunwall, and instead the great, big, fat ruby known as Serkonos. A land of exotic riches and mystery, the land where my father grew up.

Her blouse—if that's what it is called—hangs low on her chest, revealing a lot of skin where it would otherwise be reserved for only a lover's eye, usually. It's a dark brown colour, melting in amidst the furniture around us like warm chocolate. My eyes come to hang on her face, searching for any clues to confirm her as my Aunt because, although it would be a strange prank to play, finding a supposed 'sister' and all, it is not impossible. Mistakes and ill-doing wishes are everywhere.

"Impossible!" Corvo growls, hand steadied on the hilt of his folding sword, ready to take action whenever the need may arise.

"My mother had a sister?" He only looks at me for a brief moment when I ask the question, before quickly turning back. A strange tension was gathering in the air—I swear I can hear a soft hum of some sort of… dark magic?

"My _dearest_ niece. Hello," Delilah smiles widely, but I am no longer studying her face. Her voice. It sounds odd, like it was in some way distorted from this plane… here, and not here, a strange mechanism granted to no one but those who are displaced in this world. I can feel a shiver coming up along the bones of my spine.

"It's not true."

Corvo has always stood firm in his belief—dedication and stubbornness must be two of his biggest traits. Persuading him against his thoughts is no easy task—even I struggle with it—but at the end of the day, it is probably for the best of everyone's interests. He believes what he sees as right and convincing him of evil is impossible. If only the rest of the world could see that and stop blaming him for all these murders under the name of the Crown Killer.

They're a mystery, and as of late, a big burden on my shoulders. A vulgar killer, operating without mercy, without mistakes. How can someone have such precision? Even with formal training from a veteran or renowned criminal, they are incredibly talented. Such a waste. They could be doing a lot of good, but instead, they are trying to make me look guilty by destroying the lives of my enemies.

I remember training with my father during the cover of dark when I was just a young teenager entering the long, dreary process of adolescence. He taught me a great many things, despite the protests of the few people who found out, and gave me skills to last a lifetime—not to mention rules and lessons, guidelines to follow.

My own variation of the scriptures, in a way.

One of countless rules, a personal favourite, tells me that killing should only be reserved for people in which cannot be saved or punished in another way. Only murder, only find another's hostile blood on your hands, if you risk putting your own on theirs. It's a smart way of thinking upon closer inspection because, like my father when he spares countless bad men, he makes sure that they'll _wish_ they were dead without leaving bloody messes like The Crown Killer. He makes life a worse punishment than death—something my no-good burden lacks in their ultimate arsenal of lies.

"…But now I'm home," Delilah spreads her arms out, gloriously and shamelessly pointing to herself and the rest of the room at the same time. I _really_ need to stop spacing out. Even without the stupid, lengthy talks from the Abbey, I know this cannot be a good thing. I'll end up missing something important and sowing seeds of distrust in amongst my court. That's never good for business; it will only lead to long-term complications, after all.

"My, you're a smart Empress, it seems…" something cold as ice bashes against my neck, freezing me in my throne chair like a criminal caught red-handed during his heist. It leaves, and comes again alongside more words.

"Do pay attention. This is important, Your Majesty," the voice sounds alienated and has a rather similar quality to Delilah's. The same displacement in reality, a little tear in sanity where the polar opposite bleeds through, slick and glowing like Whale Oil. There is a heart racing…

It takes a few shaky breaths to realise it is my own.

"Surprised to hear from me? I would be, too. But do not fret, for I bring no curses other than truth."

"Who are you?" I think the better question would be ' _what_ are you?' but I keep it to myself, clenching my jaw shut so tightly that my skull threatens to explode, fracturing into a billion pieces so small that not even the great Anton Sokolov would be able to piece me together. I would be forever lost in this throne room, with this… person… to be the blame.

Hold on—why can't anyone else see him? Why, even though he is right by my side with his breath chilling on my neck, is he invisible to Corvo and the others? Do they not see him?

Is it even a _him_? I don't move my gaze to check, my fluttering eyes trapped on Delilah as she speaks of something incomprehensible. Something about sparrows? It's as if I can no longer understand the language; like I'm a foreigner in my own world. I will not look.

 _Don't turn your head, Em. Don't turn. Do not. Breathe._

"Ask Corvo, if you must know." It, no, _he_ laughs, and with the quiet exhale of amusement all the colour seems to drain out of the world, fading to a black and white mirage of nothing but a dull image consisting of everything previously vibrant with life. The people stand still. Delilah no longer speaks of whatever history she was highlighting and father is no longer narrowing his eyes so impossibly far by the second. Time is frozen.

Particles of air feel heavy in my lungs, organs shuddering with each movement, afraid they will give in and die, wrinkling up like fruit left to rot. Slowly, I turn my vision not towards the presence who burns their gaze into the side of my head, but rather, my father on the opposite side.

"Father?!" I wave a hand in front of his eyes, quickly snapping it back when he suddenly clicks into motion, as if he had been brought into this strange reality.

"The-" his dark brown eyes widen, a stark contrast to their position a few moments ago, and look past my shoulder, to the strange thing beside my throne.

"You never left…" I vaguely hear him murmur, with a tone of voice indecipherable. Was he angry, scared, happy or grateful? Or something else entirely? And has he met them before? Am I dreaming?

"I can assure you, Emily, this is definitely not a dream. This," I see an arm stretch to loosely gesture at the crowds gathered here for mother's anniversary with skin that is deathly white, "is your reality. But everything is about to flip on its heels, and I can't help but wonder… what will _you_ do to turn things back to their 'rightful' ways? More importantly, can you do it without losing your sanity and innocence?" The arm turns downward and clutches onto my wrist without warning me beforehand. There can't be normal blood pumping through their veins, the skin is much too white… and judging by the dark brown of their sleeve, they are appearing in their 'real time' depiction, not the drained version like everything else. Actually, come to think of it, neither Corvo nor I hold the black and white emptiness, either. It must only affect that of which lies still…

My Royal Protector shoots forward, eyes suddenly crazed. My own keep switching from him, to my wrist, and back again. The limb is encased in the stranger's grasp and he appears to be studying the anatomy of the bones in my hand—the little bumps of my knuckles and the slender of my fingers.

By the Outsider, they're cold!

Wait. Hold on. No. No, no that can't be-

That would explain the responses to my thoughts as if he'd read them like a book…

"Mhm. Smart, although a little slow." He confirms my suspicions, only making my stomach drop further into this abyss of dread—or is it now the Void? I slowly turn to look, all the while wanting to curl up into a ball. I want this to end, to go back to the real world where things do not twist in a sickening yet alluring way. I no longer want to feel this slight twist and pull that does not seem to have an effect on father, who stands right in front of me, looking at the back of my hand as if it may explode. I suppose he can't touch the Outsider, because you can't fight someone who cannot die.

The wraps on his hand. A supposed feast where scars and burns lay—now it is clear like day. It is not injury, but rather, sorcery.

My father, just like the people from myth and legend, is a Marked of the Outsider.

I finish turning my head sideways and immediately feel drawn in, like a helpless whale getting ready to be harvested for oil. The Outsider's eyes are hollow and empty, although they are not like the mechanical soldier's, whom you can literally see through. His eyes replicate the darkness in the night sky; a pitch black that does not have a pupil or iris. Everything black. All black. I shrink into myself just a little, trying to figure out where he's looking.

He could be looking at Corvo, my hand, or me.

"Do not worry about me, my _dear_ Corvo. I'd be more worried about Delilah." He leaves my body, hands clasping behind his back. Whatever the Outsider wanted… it did sound important—it would have to be important to warrant his presence here, yes?—and I can't help but give the frozen Aunt in front of me a little thought. Sure, she'd sounded weird, but what about her is dangerous?

"The rug is about to be yanked out from under your feet, Empress, and I don't know who's going to keep their footing. Either way, I'll see one of you very soon, I predict."

"Hold on, what's ha-"

"Prepare to fight." The Outsider smirks, leaning forward in Corvo's direction ever so slightly, directly addressing the words to him like a birthday gift. I'll be honest: I do not see how this will be a good party, and I also don't see what activities might be hosted in celebration. All I can see is the slowly eroding form of the unkillable entity—the dark corner of the world that has, for reasons I can't comprehend, appeared to me and father to warn us of danger.

When he's disappeared completely, Corvo sighs and resumes his previous position. I take it upon myself to do the same, returning my arched back to sit straight and still, a proper posture for an Empress.

"…What do we do?"

"We listen to him, but don't act with hostility until something happens. He's not a man to lie-"

"Are you forgetting that he is _the_ Outsider?! He's definitely a liar!"

"Not to me, he's not. Jesting about something so serious isn't his style, Emily… just get ready, yeah?"

"I wasn't really paying attention, but I think I will be able to focus more now." I can feel sweat bead on the back of my neck and the front of my brow, its arch wavering with worry. I take a deep breath, and just like the colour had drained with the Outsider's laughing exhale seemingly infinite minutes ago, my inhale brings it all back, setting things into motion.

"…So many years ago is now fulfilled," Delilah continues, now with my full attention in her hands—a little ball of matter to shape and sculpt as she sees fit. She can create anything from the little ball; fear, worry, hatred, anger…

It is her decision. I have no say.

"Watch your tongue. Emily Kaldwin is the daughter of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin!" he points to me, stare piercing into the blue of my Aunt's like an invitation daring her to try anything. I have complete faith in his abilities, now, more than ever. With a supernatural magic at his side, my Royal Protector must be near invincible. A force to be reckoned with, and matched by no others. I feel proud of him, but should I also show concern over the matter? If the Abbey of the Everyman found out…

"Royal Protector," her darkly gloved hand comes upward, towards father's face, but instead of slapping him or harming, she merely caresses his cheek like mother used to. I can't help but gasp a little. "How naïve of you to think you could get away with these murders…" her hand quickly falls back down to her side when he grabs it at the wrist, pulling the limb away from his face like it was a filthy plague rat. If what the Outsider says is true, it very well might be one, in a metaphorical sense.

"Living in my palace has protected you, but now that's over," Delilah studies me more closely, taking in the proportions of my body as if comparing me to mother. In a lot of ways, we were almost identical. The biggest physical differences between me and the former Empress is our body shape and minor details of the face. Her body took on the shape of a pear with elegant hips and short shoulders, the lovely image a model would die for, whereas my body is a lot more manly, perhaps a result from all my training. My shoulders are a faction broader than my hips, although not enough to elude my categorisation of an hourglass shape, and my thighs are somewhat wide in comparison to my upper arms. My muscles are well formed, but they do not even appear to exist unless you look _very_ closely, which defeats the purpose. I am not unhappy with my shape, nor happy. Everyone else seems to be quite happy, though. Men and women alike never fail to make my eyes roll at their pathetic attempts to bed themselves with me. It gets quite gross and confronting sometimes.

"Here me, all of you. Your rightful Empress has returned!" Gasps and whispers roll through the crowd like a contagious sickness, plaguing the expressions of everyone into a twisted expression of shock. Delilah curtsies to them, her self-proclaiming head dipping to address her 'subjects.' _My_ subjects.

"All hail the Empress Delilah, first of her name!" The Duke cheers, agreeing with the idea of a new ruler. "Arrest Emily Kaldwin and her father for the Crown Killer murders!"

Time feels like it slows, but I know that it hasn't because colour does not fade. Nothing melts from its natural place… things only _shine._ Light reflects off blades being drawn from their scabbards, their polished shapes obstructed from my view by nothing but the wielder's body. The chandeliers above me bounce their illumination every which way they can—it would be spectacular where it not assisted by lethal weaponry. I can feel my heart jolting and I can hear screams of pain. The people are being murdered, and there is nothing I can do.

 _Is this helplessness?_

Corvo springs into action out of pure instinct and fuelled speed, with one arm in front of my chest in an animalistic motion to keep three confronting guardsmen from me. The others reach for their holstered weapons. Despite his ravenous want to protect me, he manages to stay calm and collected, assessing the situation without the need of movement. I do the same and try to work a plan into my head, squeezing past all my frightful barricades to find the more peaceful section of my consciousness. _Breathe_ , I tell myself.

The arm in front of my midsection draws itself away, and begins to glow through the dark bindings covering it. In an instant, the head of the closest guard falls off, the body of the furthest one doubles over, knees buckling from a newfound wound found in his ribcage, and the middle one has my father's sword plunged through it. He pulls it back out with a deafening _squealch_ that spurts blood upwards… the opposite direction the dead body stumbles. The blood is sanguine red, spilling all over the blue of my carpet in a sickening drizzle. Pieces of broken flesh hang out, gaping from the wounds like the slack-jawed position of my mouth. I have no qualms with the sight of blood, and I have seen plenty of it throughout what days I have lived, but I cannot help but feel sick to my stomach. It's slowly pooling around the bodies and my feet, running like water in a stream.

Corvo does not look back before suddenly rushing towards Delilah in a speed physically impossible to replicate. More magic. His blade goes right through my new enemy's chest, I can feel a small smile tug at the corners of my mouth, but it quickly fades when she begins pulling the sword back out, simultaneously trapping father in some sort of dark, vine-like plant. It coils around his body in a tight embrace, likely attempting to crush his windpipe.

"Father!" I jump out of my seat, only to be pulled backwards by Ramsey, who wears a dark grimace on his face and something else… lust? Sick, traitorous dogs! In all my years, after returning from my capture with father and without mother, I thought my rule would be relatively peaceful in that sense, without many assassination attempts to dethrone my bloodline. Yes, there had been a few, but they were always cut down before anything bad could happen. And now? This is so much worse. It is almost like our own strategies: making life _worse_ than death.

My fist connects hard against Ramsey's jawline in hopes to be freed from his controlling grasp. It only angers him, earning me a shove that pushes me down onto the floor, wind pushing out of my body. I cough, turning upwards to see Delilah finish removing the now bloody steel of the sword from her person. The red is from the guards before, but her blood? It is a dark, gooey black; a supernatural colour that should not be possible. I feel my throat gag.

"Your blade can't still my heart…"

She looks down at me, smiles, and curls her fingers in Corvo's direction, making something inexplicable happen. I don't even know how to describe it. The back of his hand glows, then settles, going limp in the strange plant's grasp. There's still many audible screams and clashing duels going on in the room around me, but I find sounds being muffled, drained out by the sound of my own heartbeat and the acute focus I have upon Corvo's ragged breathing, which can barely be heard in its covered state. It seems pained. _Is_ pained.

The vine uncurls itself and vanishes into the floor, as if disintegrating without leaving ash. Father falls down and I barely catch him in my arms, placing my hand against the scruffy bone of his cheek, much like Delilah had done before, only with good intentions. He doesn't push me away, barely managing to look me in the eyes. In this moment, he looks so impossibly old—mortality was infinitely present.

Delilah throws the sword above our heads and Ramsey catches it from behind us. A massive fight would break out any second; it is me and Corvo against so many others. But I will not surrender my throne. This is my kingdom. Delilah does not know what she's stepping into. In fact, I'd say she is quite obviously _blind_ to the consequences she's about to deal with. No one messes with the Kaldwin family.

A hand on his shoulder, I help my partner rise and we stand back to back, communicating once again without the need for words. I hunch over slightly to ready myself for a charge directed at my body and snarl quietly under my own breath, air baited between us, waiting for someone to make the first move. Tension is thicker than the blood on the floor—it's making it hard to move, as if the substance wanted to glue us all in place to stand still for the rest of this world's eternity. It doesn't sound too bad, but for now, I am not finished living.

I take a single step, and Delilah suddenly erupts into a growl, hands raising again with deep curls at her fingers. This time, however, a drastically different spell is cast.

"I will cast you in cold marble!" My father begins to freeze like stone, a cold silver covering him from his toes, all the way up to his head in an agonisingly crunchy movement, the sound crackling like true marble under a brute's sledgehammer—the sole purpose being that of destruction. He tries to struggle out of it, but the effort bares fruitless, and in a few short seconds, my Royal Protector is stone. Unmoving and stilled.

"Nooo!" I cannot think; there is no longer any time for that. There's only. Father. Stone. Delilah. Revenge.

I lunge forward at that dog of a human being—if she can even be called as such—with no friendly intentions. Forget the rules; all that matters is Delilah's downfall. There's. No. time. To think. Left. I can only make her pay… the debt is already due.

 _Thump._

Her hands push against my chest with a white aura sparkling around them, and I feel myself stumble backwards with my soul following not too far behind. It feels separated from my body, as if she just pulled apart all the planes of my existence in an effort to dissect me, to learn of what lies in her niece's body. When my physical form crashes against the wet, hard ground, everything snaps and reunites, welcoming me back with a gut-wrenching nausea to capture my abilities in a sack, derailing any hopes of fighting back. I clench my head with my hands, eyes closing rapidly to stop all the light. The noise. It _burns._

"Sweet girl. Over time, you'll come to love me," I hear her words, and feel them branding against the surface of my skull, a heated fire to cause marks inerasable from my memory. My eyes open just a little, and I see her crouching beside me, twirling a lock of my pitch-black hair in her grasp. "Perhaps someday you'll see me as the mother you lost…"

Not likely.

"…But until then, you'll be kept out of trouble."

She stands up, towering over me, and looks to the devious traitor behind me, who comes around to the side of my throbbing head with a pace as calm as ever. _Did you not notice the commotion? Or is this not the first time your boots have walked on blood, Ramsey?_

"I'll lock Lady Emily in her chambers, then I'll bring her to Coldridge Prison until her trial…"

"Goodnight, Emily."

The blood-bearing boot collides with my head without mercy, and everything goes extremely dizzy, like an alcoholic party's aftermath. I do not find this very bubbly… _help._

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed! Stay tuned-and please show support :)-for more!**

 **Please feel free to correct any spelling mistakes I may have made.**


	2. Chapter 2 - Marked

**Chapter two: Gone**

 **POV: Third person**

* * *

She vaguely recollects the events from earlier today. The sun had been shining cheerfully when she entered the now bloody throne room, and things had been quite nice, despite it being in sorrowful memory of the former Empress. Now, her head spins and blood cakes on the top of her head, in her hairline and around the lobes of her pointy ears. Things hurt, _dreadfully_ so. Some of the dark red liquid wasn't her own, and instead, from Ramsey's boot, which happily trudged through humanity's water like it was air, but a great section of it was oozing from a cut in her head. A small gash gathered from some unknown part of the confrontation—it doesn't matter where it came from. It is still there, and ought to receive medical attention.

That's the last thing on her tired mind, right now.

Emily tries to stand up, using the wall behind her for support. Her ring is missing, and her sense of balance has also been robbed. It no longer exists—she feels utterly stupid when she falls back down onto the wooden, rug-covered floor with a light _thunk._

"Come on, Emily. Do not let them hear you. I _need_ to escape. Come on…" she mutters to herself, crawling on her hands like a cat to reach the door a few feet ahead of her. It takes excessively long… too long to be reasonable. A small cut must not be the only thing she's gotten from that encounter. A broken rib, maybe?

 _It's hard to breathe._

The brass handle does not budge when her hand reaches up to it and pulls down; it just shifts itself ever so slightly, as if it was mocking her pathetic efforts to escape. She needs to think, to clear her head from all the plaguing junk that has decided to sit there. However, there is no time for that. If she waits any longer, _they_ might just come back for her and drag her drowsy body into Coldridge. _They_ being Delilah and the rest of the coup's members.

Such a treasonous plan indeed… how had they even known Delilah was Jessamine's sister? If anyone else had come knocking on their door with such information, they'd be admitted to a mental asylum for treatment concerning their sanity. Were the Duke and Delilah friends somehow? Did they both share the dream of dethroning Emily from where she should rightfully sit? All the more treason.

She wasn't _that_ bad an Empress, right? Or is the Duke merely greedy enough to destroy another for the power he wants? That, too, is a very real possibility.

Giving up on opening the door in its clearly locked state, Emily leans her weight against it and peers through the lock hole. On the other side, chatting pleasantly and calmly, are two guards with irrelevant faces. Nobodies who have betrayed the Empress in turn for some gift or wealth, probably. A promise that may not even find itself fulfilled.

"These must be some of the Duke's men. Traitorous dogs…" she needs a plan, and an efficient way of executing it. The latter will be a lot harder to sort through, seeing as though the inhalation of oxygen is not getting any easier as the clock on her desk tics by the passing time.

She remembers vividly a time where she sat at that desk without pants on, while her lover, Wyman, hid underneath her and away from the guard whom entered to give a report. Using a lot of willpower, Emily had managed to stay put with a straight face the entirety of the time, all the while pretending to listen to the meaty guard through pleasuring waves that would not stop in his presence—adding a lot of difficulty to the situation. As soon as he had left the two burst into a fit of laughter, almost forgetting their previous activity. Those were good days, but now they are over. For now, at least.

"I'll see you soon, Wyman. I promise. But in the meantime I need to get out of Dunwall—it's not safe here anymore."

She turns her neck and cranes it towards the window on the opposite side of the room. The muscles in her back ache like the aftermath of a vigorous training exercise, maybe even worse, but if there's no pain, there is no gain.

The window. She could walk along the building's ledge and get to her private chambers. From there, she could get out and escape the palace.

 _And now I have to move all the way back. Brilliant._

The crawling does not take as long this time, it could almost be mistaken for a 'normal' pace, were it not for the strange limp and buckling of her left arm every few seconds. As soon as she gets out of here, a doctor is what she'll have to search for, whether she likes it or not.

The window isn't stiff to lift, thanks to a constant use. Whenever Emily wanted to escape and jump on building rooftops, she would use windows to sneakily navigate her way to her safe room, which held access to the outside world of the city. Although, she mustn't be sneaky enough, because Corvo seems to know about her near-nightly escapes. How he managed to follow her through the fast-paced running throughout the night is beyond Emily—not that she minds his quiet company. He truly is her protective shadow. A being just beyond sight to appear whenever the action is deemed necessary.

She needs to get that shadow back, to free him from his 'prison,' for lack of a better word.

But how? How can she accomplish such a feat all on her own?

 _There is no one to help me. I'm alone._

 _It's hard to breathe._

The city skyline looks the same as always, with the same vast buildings peeking upwards to meet the sky… yet the perception Emily has for it has changed drastically. No longer does it seem warm and inviting, a thriving place that survived a plague which should have eradicated the entirety of its population. It seems cold and still—albeit not like her encounter in the throne room with the black-eyed bastard.

 _He is probably responsible for all this s—t. If he wasn't, he would be here to help me. But no._

'Angry' is an understatement to her personality right now. This internal fire fuels her need to escape, pushing her towards the safe room like an explosion caused by incendiary crossbow bolts in a Whale Oil tank. The flames spread across any surface they can lick, although, in this case, the travelling is quite slow. Emily moves across the stone ledge like a snail, lest she lose her already non-existent balance and fall to her death. Not only would that be completely useless to the situation at hand, but very embarrassing.

A few drops of bright red come against the white beneath her; the wound must be bleeding once more, only proving its seriousness. It's a pity she doesn't care or give a single coin over its progression.

Her bedroom window is a lot harder to open, seeing as though it is constantly checked for any weaknesses (a security operation) but, with a few big shoves, it starts to lift upward. Why they have to check windows hundreds of feet above ground was, and still is, completely unknown to her, but security insists the protocol is of utmost importance, and there is no point in arguing.

Without warning, the Empress freezes in her tracks like an animal in the sights of a hunter, and there is nowhere for her to run. A guard is staring right at her, sword already drawn. Even if there was room to turn around and go back to the study, she's too wounded to move at an appropriate pace.

"It's Emily Kaldwin! Come, quickly!" He hollers, waving to no one in particular past her bedroom's entrance. His face depicts that of a young boy, barely out of his teenage years, with an unquenchable hunger for adventure in his eyes. The young lad must be no older than seventeen, Emily decides.

" _Fall backwards,"_ a voice hisses through her brain, although it doesn't sound like her inner conscious. It sounds a lot like the man in her throne room; the voice perfectly replicates the cold wind against her neck as an unkillable being leaned down to whisper in her ear. " _If you don't fall backwards right now, that boy will stab you through your chin, completely ignoring the orders asking to keep you alive. You will not even get the chance to scream."_

She does not have much time to contemplate the pros and cons of her options, but for the brief moment she has left, Emily wonders whether or not she should trust the Outsider. If her father truly was marked, does that not mean he can be trusted to a certain degree? Could it be she has been directed away from the scriptures because of the Mark her father held? How many people know?

Sadly, she is now out of time. The guard lunges forward, his blade tilted upwards towards her face, just as the Outsider said. There are no memories flashing before her eyes, or maybe they are just much too far for her to see—Emily doesn't know, nor does she care. Her only instinct forces her to bend backwards and lose balance, slipping away from the ledge she was upon a mere few milliseconds ago. Her thought process halts entirely, and it is only once she feels the wind blowing on the back of her head and clothing does she reboot from her paralysed state.

 _Bastard!_

* * *

Anton Sokolov, years ago, told Emily a great many things in the small hideout they had been cooped up in. The Hound Pits pub, as it's called, served as a place where she learnt more about natural philosophy than her teachers could ever hope to know. In addition, a few life lessons and bits and pieces.

"You shouldn't be going backwards," his wrinkled face studied one of the few pieces of paper available for use. Neatly, in the upper left-hand corner, was a spelling test containing a mere ten words. Two were incorrect, albeit not too far off their true spelling.

The previous test, taken two days ago, only had _one_ incorrect.

The young Emily hadn't said anything in reply, only pursing her lips and rubbing her tired eyes. Strange dreams among a mixture of nightmares and creaking buildings had starved her from any true amounts of rest—fatigue was hanging around her like a loyal dog would its owner. She did not care for the spelling test's results.

They aren't too important a list of words, anyway.

The man who helped shape today's technology did not have as much wisdom and insight into humanity's ways back then, but he had enough to know something was wrong with the heir to the throne—past the obvious mourning and worry. Emily would sometimes look out onto the skyline, where the sky meets the vast ocean, and stare for minutes without diverting her gaze. Sometimes, even blinking was avoided, as though the lovely albeit plain scenery required her complete attention. Though it was not forced or strained; she had no troubles with keeping her eyes open like one might have if they were purposefully staring.

She just looked _empty_ in such a way that it was like her very soul had been touched by the Void.

Anton theorised it had.

"Tell me about your dreams, girl." The paper fell down to the splinter-covered desk, almost blending in amongst the countless drawings around it. Emily loved expressing her creativity through pens, crayons, paints and the like. It is a pity they did not have the resources—charcoal had been her main tool.

"My dreams?" It sounded more like a statement, than a question.

"Mmm."

"Sometimes they're nightmares about mother and father… I do worry about their safety, though," she chuckles quietly, "I know nothing bad will happen to them. And… there are other ones."

"Go on," he hummed.

"They usually start with some lady reciting weird words or… something. There are glowing blue lines like Whale Oil everywhere—it rather reminds me of some sort of spell. It's pretty. She looks at me and goes to say something again, but before she can finish, things go black and white. And then they go away."

"Away?"

"The place changes. It changes into a strange place with no sun or sky—an unlimited place… kind of like the ocean, but a light, dreamy purple… like mummy's necklace," she recalled one of many pendants her mother would wear during formal evenings. On a rare few occasions, she was allowed to wear it for herself, and made that fact very clear to the guests with proud boasting.

 _Do you like my necklace?! It's Empress Jessamine's, but I can have it for a while!_

"There's… a man there. He is very kind, much kinder than my teachers—you excluded, of course. The ones at the castle are boring. Anyway. I can never see his eyes; they are always cast towards the ground, as if he does not want to look at me. I asked him if that was the case, but he didn't answer—he laughed."

"What is this man's name?" Anton had suddenly spiked his interest in the subject much higher than he previously could have predicted. He was leaning forward in his seat, hungry eyes searching for any information.

"He does not have one. It was stolen from him." Emily replied, finally meeting his gaze with her own.

"Bastard…"

* * *

Falling was not a particularly 'fun' thing to do, in Emily's eyes. Especially when the lethal surfaces—cliff edges, winding tree branches and the like—begin to near and you count down your final seconds, knowing that there is no chance for you to survive.

This never should have happened. Why did this have to happen? An aunt she didn't even know she had is usurping her throne and her father, the Royal Protector… well, she doesn't know what to think of his situation. Certainly, he is not dead, but he isn't… _here._

Instead of castle being at her level, there is now steep cliff, and Emily knows she's about to die. In a matter of seconds, she will hit a tree branch or a jagged rock and bleed out, her broken bones squeaking for mercy as they are drowned in the red substance they help create. She doesn't have any time to accept this, let alone hope for a good future upon her kingdom. Here, the Kaldwin—the _real_ Kaldwins—bloodline ends.

The sun fades, turning all things a dark, undistinguishable bunch of shapes. Reality becomes fragmented, like a mirror having been assaulted by an angry drunkard's fist when he couldn't afford any more whisky to fill his empty cup. Things go very cold, which is a bit surprising, because she thought her blood would be a warm, burning temperature on her skin. Or maybe she had died upon impact; maybe life had left her tumbling body instantly so it didn't have to cause her any undeserved pain. Would she ever be able to thank it?

The Empress slams against a solid surface, pushing the no-longer-necessary oxygen from her lungs. She wheezes reflexively, hand pushing against the flesh above her breast to unsuccessfully still her shaking rib cage and spasming diaphragm. Contact with the floor had not been smooth—but why had she hit it in the first place? Where was she?

It quickly became apparent that, wherever she had now found herself, it wasn't the place dead people went. Technically, her gratitude should outweigh the pain in her body, though she cannot seem to muster any kind of smile, only a ridiculously informal expression and wide eyes to try and absorb all the visual information around her. Dark, long shards of what looks to be black rock erect from all directions. But what's more impressive, is that the rocks themselves were floating in nothingness; everything, including the black beneath her feet, was seemingly weightless, but unmoving all the same. A sun to explain the light around her does not exist, but there is impossibly the ability to see. There are no skies to indicate night. There is no clear logic.

There is nothing but cold and stone and her beating heat, which thumps loudly in anxiety.

"I did tell you to fall backwards, Your Majesty," a voice hummed somewhere behind her. Gears—like the ones in Corvo's mask to regulate the spyglasses—turn inside her cranium, piecing this strange puzzle together. When the combination to the lock clicks and she finally understands, she whips around to stare at the Black-eyed Bastard. He looks calm, if nothing else. None of these recent events seemed to faze him in the slightest; he was the perfect image of composure and carelessness—or, perhaps, he's just above such mortal issues. Inside her, it sparked rage to ignite a huge fire, setting alight her eyes with fury unmatchable by any painting Sokolov could ever hope to paint.

She opened her mouth to speak—yell, scream, create any kind of noise to release her frustration—but was promptly cut off before she could even start. "Delilah has set in motion a chain of events that will change your life, Empress. The Empire's, too. I can only wonder: what are you going to do about it?"

"You sure _wonder_ a lot," she snickered cruelly, recalling their previous encounter.

"As would you, were you able to control that temper. Or maybe," he clasped his hands behind his back, fiddling with rings on his fingers, "you would think, just like your father. Asses the situation, make a plan, and entertain me. Are you interesting like him, Emily Kaldwin?" The question was blatant and straightforward—rude, even, considering whom he was speaking to. However, what would Her Majesty be able to do about it, besides fume further like he predicts she will in the nearing future? After centuries of existing and observing life in the world, the patterns in humanity's brain have become tedious and boring, losing his interest more and more as the days progress. Time, though it has blended into something unimportant to the ominous watcher, seems to stretch infinitely when there's not a good show to attend. Corvo, of course, was one of those few people that could be mistaken for an entire series of plays or books—a library of humorous jokes, in a twisted way. He was _entertaining,_ unlike the people around him.

Lies would be told if the Outsider was to say he did not care for his dear Corvo. The man was quite the tool to repair his depleted levels of fun.

Would Emily be the same?

The girl in question considers him for a moment, the look in her eyes slowly melting away into something more familiar. The look of curiosity—what has led to the deaths of so many, boldly instils within her heart and reveals itself, finally. "My father was one of your…" she made a gesture with her hands as though that might explain the words she couldn't find, "and he's gone—for now. I need to get him back… and my throne. Can you help?"

"You haven't changed at all, Empress," he smiled for a brief moment. Though she's very unaware of it right now, this was far from the first day they have seen and conversed with each other before; this is not their second conversation together. A past pristinely remembered, yet cloudy concerning detail because of a child's poor ability to recall, has proof of them intertwining paths before. "Caution and _fear_ has never been your nature. You were always one to buy more dangerous reactions to situations. It gets you in trouble a lot—and that's what I like about you." He leant forward, brow quirking upward to emphasise his speech. Emily reflexively took a step back and frowned a little. Speed was so prominent in everything right now; time is going so fast and she can barely keep track of the clock's movements, let alone the events going on around her.

When he receives no audible reply, he unclasps his hands, summoning in one a beating heart with splintered wood throughout its surface—primarily the top half. There are little cogs and gears that turn in harmony and stitches to hold it all together.

His creation, formulated by the hands of a Loyalist so many years ago, now has its captor returned to relatives once more. This strange, magical vessel holding Jessamine Kaldwin—the deceased mother of the girl before it—beats rhythmically faster, as if it is excited by the aforementioned presence. He couldn't blame it; they were very fond of each other in life, so why can't this be the case in Void, too?

A pair of brown eyes gaze down at the Heart, eyeing its existence with a curious caution. It seemed familiar to her—like a memory just beyond the edge of what is known—and she cannot reach it, no matter how far she stretches her arms forward. The Outsider has the answers to her questions, she knows this, but would he even give them to her? Does all information not have a price, and isn't everything to be earnt?

"My Mark," he supplies the price for her. "I've been watching you for a while now, and you _intrigue_ me. Let me 'corrupt' you, as the Abbey would say—as you would say, despite breaking their rules." The Heart dematerialised into thin air and the ominous being stepped forward, latching onto the Empress' wrist just as he had done in the throne room. His eyes, though completely black and infinite in depth, look terribly smug—or maybe their perception is just influenced by the smirk on his lips.

 _What other choice do I have?_ She asks herself, stomach performing a million somersaults in her body. _I need to get Corvo back, but I can't do that without help. I hate to do this… but…_

A nod.

A singular, affirmative nod.

If her father had been brought into this strange world, too, it surely couldn't be too bad. After all, his common sense knows no bounds (in _this_ kind of area, at least), thus he wouldn't accept the offer unless the pros outweighed the cons. Delilah wields some strange magic, and having her own edge to boast would be extremely helpful, if not necessary for survival. The boons of having this Mark were certainly present and visible, but what of the cons?

That, she cannot figure out.

This is one huge leap of faith. Unironically, it's just like the situation at her window.

Interrupting her musing abruptly, a painful burning sensation made her wince. Her left hand, skin a clear, pale white in colour, was glowing in a bright red and deep blue, leaving behind black ash in a strange shape. She doesn't know how to describe it, only that she _knows_ it would get her killed on sight, if the right person saw it. The Outsider's mark. There is no going back now.

What had she just gotten herself into?

"My, oh my. This is going to be fun—don't you agree?"

* * *

 **Sorry this is such a bad and short chapter. I'm writing this in the middle of class so it's extremely rushed and probably filled to the brim with mistakes ;~;**


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